


Sundown Calliope

by tealReginleif



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:20:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealReginleif/pseuds/tealReginleif
Summary: Ten thousand years into its life, Earth C faces an abrupt cataclysmic event that costs the lives of its creators. As one of the few survivors, Calliope must set out on a journey to find a way to bring her friends, and the world, back to life. Along the way she will travel strange lands, confront dangerous people and beasts, and hopefully make a few friends along the way.
Relationships: Calliope/Roxy Lalonde
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. The Welcome Back Party Committee

(In the depths of the planet’s masses of uncharted lands, the People of Earth C discovered rolls of ancient Skaian scriptures, which foretold the return of the universe’s creators on its 3,000th year. This generally gave them a lot to look forward to for a while.)

(They discovered, among these findings, the nature of the world they inhabited. The defeat of Lord English at the hands of the Heroes marked the beginning of a world free of the confines of fate. They were the heirs of a reality where suffering was entirely optional.)

(Preparations for the Heroes’ arrival were, at first, steady. Behind every movement of societal development was the motivation of building a good home for the Heroes to return to for their eternal respite. Generations passed, and with each generation the exponential expansion of civilization into the planet. They were pioneers and explorers full of purpose, and a guiding principle that they could build a world where nobody had to suffer anymore.)

(This was in no small part due to the commanding presence of the carapacians. Their role in setting up the foundational pillars of a successful society — justice, welfare, democracy — cannot be overstated.)

(They saw the first stage of their labor completed after only a few centuries. It was then time to plan the long-awaited main event accordingly. This involved the establishment of the capital city of Marigold, founded primarily as the setting for the celebration. From here, the governments of the world assembled a group of the most proficient party planners on the planet. They would lead the effort in making the oncoming celebration the best, most mirthful event in history.)

(The Welcome Back Party Committee worked diligently, and over the years they blew over their designated budgets very quickly. This was no matter; they simply needed more resources to be allocated, and their governments were happy to oblige. And so for centuries they planned on. No matter how many generations passed, how many resources they received, it seemed their plans were never close to completion. Of course, no one was going to pull the brakes on the operation, and interrupting the preparations was just as good as an affront to the dignity of the Heroes.)

(The Committee grew in members, amassed more power, formed its own rings of leadership within it. Support of the activities of the Committee became synonymous with the underlying responsibility of the People of Earth C to be loyal to the Heroes themselves. The Committee members were the designated lorekeepers of the universe’s creation, something that everybody was, by virtue of cultural pressure or simply natural curiosity, compelled to get acquainted with. And who didn’t wish to be closer to the Heroes? They had the stories in the scriptures, but when the time of their return came, how could they ensure that the Heroes _knew_ that they were loyal to them? And if you declined to support the Committee, what would that say about you and your relationship to the Heroes?)

(It was vigor. It was fervent madness. The Welcome Back Committee was eventually renamed the Church of the Genesis Frog, and, until the Heroes’ return on the 3,000th year, it remained the most politically and culturally influential institution on the planet. Earth’s governmental sphere morphed into something as much a theocracy as it was a democracy. That kinda had to be the case, doesn’t it? When it was certain that your gods would one day walk clear as day among you?)

(The grand return came and went, and ten thousand years have passed since. In the presence of the Heroes, the Church of the Genesis Frog has endured as a secondary force in society, filling the religious niche it had itself created.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a rewrite of a thing i wasn't too happy with and dropped. hopefully now i can do it properly, and see callie go off


	2. The Fall

Every night, Calliope has the same nightmare.

She’s floating, suspended in the space between universes, affixed in place just above the epicenter of Paradox Space. At first, she can’t see a thing. She flails her arms, drifting in place. It’s so cold. There is a dread creeping in her chest, a sensation that time is moving way too fast.

Light begins to spawn. Just below her, at a distance she cannot place, a light bursts beautifully into existence, fervently burning with verdant radiance. A technicolor sprawl of cracks appear in her periphery, spreading in the shape of a spider’s web. 

Then she sees the outline of a shape in front of her, steadfast in its presence, as if it had always been there. The shape is small in stature, and maintains a perfect, unsettling stillness. The Green Sun’s flares illuminate its contour, and Calliope’s eyes widen. Her heart pounds furiously as she realizes that she is looking at her own body, and she knows what happens next.

It unnerves her how quiet it is when the shape raises its baton. Deadly quiet. She can only hear, if she focuses, the distant sound of the rainbow canvas of reality leaking through the cracks. It sounds like ocean waves.

That’s when it hits her. In a fraction of a moment too sudden to capture, a resounding screech emanates from everywhere at once. It shakes every bone in her body into fine dust. A trillion pained eldritch wails. The impossible ear-splitting crash of reality breaking. The Green Sun draws its final breaths, keeping Calliope’s gorey remains in a frozen state, conscious, motionless, ruthlessly lucid of her pain. 

The noise mutates at the baton’s beckoning. Cacophony morphs into symphony. Calliope’s sight wanes, until all that remains in her mind is the shape’s empty, piercing pair of eyes staring at her. 

The song subsides. Watching her suffer through eternity, only the eyes remain.

Calliope’s friends cycled her through countless doctors. They attributed this recurring dream to trauma. Having faced death, persecution, and resurrection would no doubt leave an impact on her psyche. But she was on Earth C now. She could, in time, move past it all and live a peaceful life. She had all the time in the world. She could, if she wanted, outlive the planet itself.

Some nights, she is aware that it’s only a dream. And yet, every time, despite her most desperate efforts, she finds it impossible to bring herself to wake.

In the outskirts of a serene coastal town, a lofty silver tower sits by the cliffside, taking in the rising sun. The tower’s exterior is adorned with thin twirls of Prospitian gold that glimmer in the sunlight. The sun is dawning—a song of seagulls greets the seadwelling fishers as they make their way to shore. 

Inside the ten thousand year old spire, an exhausted cherub stands quietly hunched over her kitchen counter. She sinks her head to cover her eyes from the creeping sunlight. The sugar water inside the mug between her claws has long gone cold. Vibrant rays have only just begun to slither past the living room curtains. The kitchen has no windows, though, and the lights aren’t on. The darkness of the passing dusk lingers over Calliope; another night’s rest has eluded her.

She’s looking down at her phone. Two people had messaged her that night, one of which would have excited the heart of her former self. Through hazy eyes, she goes over Dirk’s message:

“ _Hey. It’s been a while._

_“There’s going to be a little meeting at Skaiatech Headquarters tomorrow. Something’s come up, and we thought it’d be a good idea if you were there to offer your perspective. Roxy should be coming morning to pick you up._

_“Might do you some good to get out once in a while.”_

Calliope knows he’s joking.

_“But it’s totally alright if you’re not up for it. Anyway, let me know.”_

She had responded:

_“hello, dirk. its good to hear from yoU again. ill be there.”_

He had responded:

_“It’s good to hear from you too. I’m glad to hear it. How are the nightmares?”_

“ _theyre there.”_

_“Gotcha.”_

_“who else is going to be there?”_

_“Jane and I, naturally. Roxy. And John.”_

_“john.”_

_“Yeah, huh. Anyway. Looking forward to seeing you here, okay?”_

She had wanted to ask, _“does it really have to be roxy?”_ But, that’d be rude.

She knows Dirk is not being callous with the subject of her nightmares. Far from it, Dirk has been the most supportive out of anyone when it comes to addressing that issue. Part of that support includes not bothering her with formalities. He has never presumed to understand how she feels, and never insulted her by lying to make her feel better. She appreciates that a lot.

She goes over, with hazier eyes, Roxy’s message:

_“heeey_

_“it’s me_

_“so_

_“you mighta heard from dirk already that theres gonna be a thing at janes office tmrrw_

_“its at noon so ill be there in the morning okay?”_

She had responded:

_“okay.”_

And that was that.

A few unspoken things in Roxy’s texts. There is, for instance, the acknowledgement that Calliope dislikes Void-warping, necessitating the four hour travel. There is the awareness that, although it has been a very long time, Roxy knows that Calliope does not sleep most nights, a subject gently circumvented by the lack of an inquiry. In her brevity there is also the promise, or rather the invitation, to let Calliope direct the amount of talk between them during the trip to be as little as she wishes.

Calliope glances at her bleached-out-yellow sleeping robe. For a moment, she honestly, truly cannot tell whether she’s had that thing on for three days or three decades.

As she has this thought, a knock sounds on the window. She knows immediately who it is, and grimaces at the state that Roxy is about to find her in.

“Callie?” Roxy’s voice through the glass and the curtains.

And Calliope is annoyed; Roxy has already broken an unspoken rule. She is not supposed to use that name. 

“Come in,” the cherub answers hoarsely.

Long ago, Calliope used to have to slide the window open from the inside so Roxy could come in. Now it only took a second for Roxy to use the Void in between and, in a flash of dark light, phase through. Something inside Calliope stings when she sees her. She looks down, away.

As Roxy makes her way to the kitchen, Calliope’s staggered mind jumps between three places. First, she begins to wonder how long it has been since she’s opened that window, even just a crack. She can’t really remember. Second, perhaps out of habit, she mentally prepares to recount her most recent nightmare. Third, as had been the case in the past, she feels a brief twang of self-consciousness in the disparity between their appearances. Here she is, wearing scruffy old pajamas full of stains and holes at the hem from where her claws fiddle nervously. A far cry from Roxy’s stunning indigo garb; it’s a gorgeous getup, something like a fancy tunic with twirly decorative laces, much in the style of the golden streaks of her tower. The colors are more muted than the standard Rogue of Void outfit, so that the Void symbol in the center pops out more. It’s the sort of outfit a Calliope from long ago would’ve loved to ask to wear. She would never ask now, of course. Even if she did, the thing wouldn’t fit her; while her god tiered friends enjoyed their eternally youthful and full-grown figures, the Ring of Life did not seem to grant Calliope a similar kind of immortality. Was it because of her interrupted childhood maturity? Were the Ring’s powers simply limited?

Roxy places her hand delicately on Calliope’s shoulder, snapping her out of her idle thoughts. “Geez. Think some tidying up for your study is in order. Or is this your living room? Straight up can’t tell, with all that scattered paper!” Roxy gibs and laughs nervously. The cherub offers her a weary smile. As a joke, it doesn’t land very well. The door to her study hasn’t been opened in centuries. The thought, _you would know that if you still lived here_ , creeps over Calliope’s tired mind. 

With her hand on Calliope’s shoulder, Roxy begins putting away the clutter of dirty dishes on the kitchen counter. There’s a pronouncedly maternal grace to her movements, as if she is somehow in perfect tune with the universe. No, not as if. Roxy is, like the seven other Heroes of the Earth who have long since ascended the last of the God Tiers, literally in perfect tune with the universe. 

Seeking to move the scene along, and being very careful with the question, Roxy asks, “You still seein’ her?”

Calliope nods laboriously. Her tired eyes are glued to the cup. A heavy silence clouds the room.

Roxy frowns, hums, then says, “Here.” She takes a step back, letting go of Calliope’s arm to concentrate. Calliope watches as the contour of the Rogue’s body begins to glow a profound indigo. For a moment, the symbol of Void gleams superimposed on her person, fading away in an afterimage. A multitude of dark glowing tendrils emanate from her body. They slither and cover the counter, the walls, the very air around them. Gravity itself disappears as the ground blinks away from underneath. In seconds, every trace of the world disconnects from their senses, leaving only Roxy and Calliope. The cherub is taken by the familiar feeling of weightlessness; Roxy’s darkness is more than the simple absence of light. It is a true absence, one that knows no distress or nightmares. It is a space only they can inhabit.

“Better?” Roxy takes Calliope’s claws into her hands. Her pupils dilate with the shape of Void.

“Very much. Thank you,” Calliope murmurs through a feeble smile. 

They hold on to each other as they drift. Calliope can feel the grip on her claws tighten; she’s about to ask. It’s easier to notice in this darkness, Calliope figures, that there is an innocence in her heart that millennia have eroded away.

“Do… you wanna talk about it?”

She wants to say no. She can’t do it. Calliope takes a deep breath. “All that time ago, when we all stood on the victory platform…” She can’t help but wince. It feels awkward, maybe even a little shameful, to keep tracing their memories back to so long ago. “I was not so naive as to believe that crossing the threshold of the win state necessarily guaranteed a life of happiness or fulfillment. Yet, as all of our friends gathered in triumph that day… I don’t know. I really believed that I would find serenity through that door. That my inner self would meet some sort of finality...” Her words trail off, as if floating away in the void

None of this is new to Roxy. “You’re not happy.” Her lament takes strength to voice out loud.

Calliope just shakes her head. Perhaps in a different time, long ago, Calliope’s first instinct would’ve been to protest such a statement. Now she couldn’t muster up the energy to do so if she wanted. “I still see her in my sleep. I see her obsidian eyes staring me down, every time just before she orchestrates her ultimate sacrifice. Sometimes when I’m awake, I still wonder if she was ever resentful of me. Why her and not me who wore the god tier garbs and served her great purpose? But in my dreams her eyes do not look resentful. They look ashamed. Disappointed in me, as if I am _failing_ her.” She lets a deep breath go, as her alternate self’s last words echo in her mind. “‘Be who you've become, and who I didn't. Consume the fruits of an existence I could never understand… Live.’” Another deep breath. “‘Live.’ Such an innocent task, and I’m afraid I’m failing her.”

“Callie…” Roxy rubs her thumb over the cherub’s claw. It’s almost a bizarre sight, seeing a god not know what to say. “What… what do you think you’re doing wrong?” Calliope only shakes her head. Roxy tries to understand. “When she said that, that you need only live… I think what she meant was that you shouldn’t be beating yourself up right now about whether you’re living up to any kind of expectations here. You don’t _have_ to do anything. The game is over. There is no greater purpose for anything anymore, you just get to _be_ , now. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Calliope wonders if Roxy could ever understand why that isn’t helping. She thinks, _I lived my life taking for granted that I was meant to do something important. Every day I look out into this world and I see my failure reflected back at me. What am I supposed to do with this life? Draw and write about my friends’ adventures over and over again? Futilely chase the feeling of the one story I know? I feel the most unlike myself I could ever be._

She fiddles with her ring. Outside, the fishers rake in their bounty with cheers of relief. This week’s haul, they chant, will feed many for months to come.

There’s a long silence before Calliope finally hears Roxy say, “We should probably get goin’ if we wanna make it in time.”

A congregation of the gods. Calliope lets the wave of inadequacy pass through her, then, in preparation for the day, reaches inside herself for whatever facsimile of her long-gone composure she can find. “Let’s.”

With that, the void dissipates, and the real world collapses into place. Calliope rubs her eyes as the sunlight floods back into the room. She looks at her gown and forces an amiable snort. “I’ll have to get dressed, if you don’t mind waiting a minute.” Roxy nods, and with a soft smile she retreats to wait by the window. 

As she walks up the stairs to her bedroom, Calliope at last remembers the last time that she opened the window. It was a night some two thousand years ago, when a thunderous storm took the bay by surprise. She had been staring out into the sea, twisting and roaring, when it first dawned on her that for the rest of time nothing would ever change.

(The Church calls Calliope the “False Muse.”)

(She who lived while her counterpart died in glorious sacrifice, securing a future to all. While over time the followers of the Church have regarded Calliope with slight irreverence, there was originally no malice behind that name, I don’t think. It was simply a title, a way to distinguish her as The One That Did Not Ascend. Still, it must’ve been pretty harsh for her to hear that aloud, at least at first. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t watch TV anymore.)

(When the Heroes returned, the Church approached them full of reverence and pleas of guidance. Not much came out of that. They weren’t particularly interested in the organized religion side of the world. Still, they’re always down for the holidays.)

(Calliope’s in the unique position of being the only being on Earth that is immortal while not actually being a god. The ultimate boon, gifted to her like a birthday present. Must be peculiar. The Church certainly has its opinion about it. I frankly find her fascinating.)

Jane’s office can be found past the elevator, at the end of the long chrome hallway, on the tenth floor of the Skaiatech Headquarters. The building is magnificent. High ceilings, corridors with round, elegant designs. Art and photography lining every wall. The exterior walls are all window, and the city below stretches far beyond the horizon, teeming with life. The building’s colored with beige and lime floral designs. Maybe if she had gotten some sleep, Calliope could properly enjoy it instead of wincing at every bright light. 

The “Crocker” part of the original name of the organization was dropped for tastefulness. The “Corp” part was dropped for accuracy. You can’t really call Skaiatech a corporation. It’s more like Earth’s sustainability engine. All economic transactions, governmental machinations, and scientific innovations go through Skaiatech. After a few hundred years of the same people being in charge, it turns out you can figure out how to effectively fine tune every system on the planet to an idyllic degree. 

Roxy leads Calliope by the hand through the facility. She wrongly assumes that Calliope is unfamiliar with the place. In truth, she just hasn’t been here in a long time. She doesn’t correct her, though; for now, she’s certainly not going to object to holding Roxy’s hand.

Heads of office workers and official-looking people bow to them as they pass. Calliope can only smile and wave, hoping that no one can see into her state of disarray. Roxy, though, handles the attention with perfected ease. Calliope briefly ponders on this: How long must it take to perfect the art of showing your face to the public, become bored of it, then loop back around to loving it? That’s what all of her friends say it’s like; they’ve lived so long that the concept of being bored and unhappy with living has withered away. 

“It’s just that door up ahead, that’s Janey’s office.” Roxy points to the double doors at the end of the hallway, the Life symbol intricately painted on the entrance. That’s as good a nameplate as Jane will ever need.

It’s been a very long time since Calliope has seen any face other than Roxy’s or Dirk’s—now she finds herself packed in an office with a dozen people in it. From the decoration of their dress and the respect with which they are regarded, Calliope infers that they’re mostly important world leaders or otherwise representatives from across the continent. She wonders why Jane would have them meet here rather than somewhere more private.

“So sorry about this!” Roxy whispers. “Seems we arrived just a little bit early. It should only take a few minutes, okay?”

“Mhm, it’s okay.” She hangs on to her hand while they wait. The meeting sounds to be about the developments of a project soon to begin operation. Complex graphs and cluttered maps flash on the office’s projector. Calliope catches the word “Auryn” on the slides before she starts zoning out.

Dirk can usually be seen standing by Jane in a supportive manner, tapping at a holographic tablet mounted on his wrist. Jane is leaning back on her desk, facing the group. They both wear a similar sort of tunic as Roxy’s. Even with the Heart colors muted, it’s hard to miss Dirk in a crowd. His stoic presence and Jane’s commanding voice demand the attention of all the suits and ties—they make a fantastic duo. Occasionally they shoot Calliope a smile or a wave; their sight gives her an uncontrollable grin. She can’t wait until this is over so she can give them a big hug.

The grin quickly fades when she notices John on the other side of the room. He’s hard to spot at first; seemingly involuntarily, his body fluctuates between a solid and gaseous state so that at any point, he’s at least partially translucent. As if laying on a bed of wind, he hovers idly by the windows. Sunlight passes right through him. Notably, he doesn’t wear the fancy tunic that the others do; he still has the standard Heir of Breath pajamas on.

Calliope is unnerved now. John has been like this since he reached the final god tier—silent, isolated, never on his feet. They all know it; he’s the only other one as messed up as she has been. He being here is incomprehensible. She had not thought until now that the same is true for her. Belatedly, it occurs to Calliope that there must be a reason why Jane specifically asked her to come. Something immediately feels wrong.

Soon the meeting ends; the suits stuff their briefcases with documents and shuffle out of the room. The doors shut with an electronic whirr.

“I’m glad that’s finally over with.” Jane relaxes her shoulder and exhales loudly. “Dirk?”

He doesn’t look up from his wrist device as he says, “The northmost node has finished stage-one construction and is ready for primary testing. We should also be expecting updates from the press by tomorrow. Yes, everything’s on track.”

“Okay, good!” Jane turns to greet Calliope, who figures now is a good time to let go of Roxy’s hand. “Callie! Thank you so much for coming. I’m so very glad you could make it.”

Jane’s smile is infectious. “Hello, Jane.”

“It’s good to see you, Calliope.” Dirk unlatches his wrist device and sets it on the desk. 

They shake hands. “It’s always good to see you too, Dirk,” she responds, which is true. It was Dirk who first speculated that Calliope would be prone to negative effects from her prolonged life. His concern made her feel cared for. She did not think negatively of Roxy at all, but whenever Dirk spoke there was always a sense that his words carried more weight than others’.

They cycle through three topics of conversation before Calliope addresses the elephant in the room. “So… Jane, Dirk. Is there a special reason why I was called here?” Implicit in the question: why is John here too?

The way Jane tenses up at the question isn’t promising. She places her hands on the desk and takes a breath before she starts: “I don’t need to explain to any of you the significance of what we see in our dreams. That is to say, there should be no significance. Any sleep-prophetic ability we had should have, to our knowledge, stayed behind in the game. There are no Skaian clouds, no horrorterrors or dream bubbles here” Her voice falters.

Dreams. All eyes are on Calliope.

“Callie…” She resumes. “That dream you have, with your alternate self and the Green Sun. You still have that dream, yes?”

“Yes.” She feels Roxy’s hand on her back.

“I… we don’t know what significance it might hold. But we didn’t get to where we are by waving away peculiarities. Last night, I had a dream exactly as you describe. It was so vivid…”

She doesn’t know how to react. 

Dirk steps in. “We don’t mean to pressure you. At all. But if there’s anything you can tell us about the meaning of this dream or why Jane might suddenly be having it, the more we know the better. We thought you might like to aid us in our investigation.”

There’s nothing she can tell them that they do not already know.

Jane continues, “I find that I can’t explain it. This overwhelming sensation that followed me as I woke up. I felt in on the Life of the planet. It was… I don’t know. Dire. Concerning.”

She tugs at the cuffs of her suit. “I’m sorry, I don’t know…” Her words hang in the air.

Roxy takes her hand again and says, “Has Rose been contacted about this?”

“This morning, yeah.” Dirk rubs his eyes under his pointy shades. He looks tired, like he didn’t get much sleep either. “We called her as soon as we could. She tried to look into it, but she says whatever it is must be outside of her domain as a Seer. Which, y’know, all the more reason to worry. ”

Jane is carefully deliberate when she says, “She did suggest that, in the meantime, we try… other means of inquiry.”

Now all eyes are on John. Calliope’s question has been answered: she’s here because Jane had a nightmare similar to hers, and he’s here because his ability to sidestep canon gives them an avenue to look into it. They really leave no stone unturned.

John looks up, puzzled. Calliope notices then that he’s let his hair grow out, down to his shoulders.

Jane speaks slowly. “John. If there is anything, anything you can tell us, if you’ve observed anything... metaphysical in nature recently, you know it’s extremely important you let us know.” She holds her eyes shut. “I talked with my director of the science and tech department. He’s adamant this couldn’t be related to the Auryn Project. There’s no reason it should—none of the nodes have yet been activated. That’s why Calliope’s dream and your, ah, canon detachment are our primary leads.”

John’s expression is hard to see, let alone read. “If it was something like that, I would have felt it, and I would have let you know immediately. But right now, no, I don’t think so. I’m sorry”

Dirk pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sooner rather than later, we need to look into this. Right now, Rose is setting up the university’s library for us. We’re going to hit the books there tonight, see what we can find. If you could be there too, Calliope, that’d be helpful.”

Crap, tonight? She needs to go back home to sleep, like, now.

The air in the room is disquieting.

“Well.” Jane claps her hands in a desperate attempt to resuscitate the mood. “That’s not the only reason we had you guys over. Onto the last order of business! Surely you have not forgotten today’s date!”

She claps her hands, and on queue two carapacians wearing tailcoats enter the room rolling a small serving cart with plates, napkins, and a splendorous cake sitting on top. Its decorative frosting meticulously depicts an abstract image of air currents flowing through a mountain range. The wind and the earth, Breath and Life. The servers place a knife on the cart before they leave.

Dirk begins handing out plates before John and Calliope can connect the dots. Jane places her hand on John’s arm and smiles. Her eyes are tender, gentle—she’s trying to reach him. “Happy birthday, John.”

“Oh.” John’s feet touch the ground. “Happy birthday, Jane.”

On their way back to the seaside tower, Roxy insisted on restocking Calliope’s kitchen. The weary cherub lingered by the fountain in Marigold City’s shopping district. The big fountain, the one everyone likes. With the big sparkly lotus at the top. Calliope remembers watching it be built thousands of years ago. At least, she thinks. She’s almost sure of it.

It’s while she’s thinking about this that a troll wearing violet rags sits on the fountain ledge, about a yard to her right. The troll’s horns fork inward, in neat ninety-degree angles. Her face is fully covered by a large hood. Her hands are bandaged—they hold on to a rucksack that appears to be full of small rectangular boxes. She swings it between her knees.

Calliope should’ve stopped paying attention then. She should have turned away from the stranger and watched the afternoon sky while she waited for Roxy to return from the store. But she can’t help herself—this is what happens when you’re cooped up in a tower with no social contact. You start staring at people.

Then the troll says, “It’s a beautiful day today, isn’t it?”

“It… it is.”

The troll smiles wide, then tucks an arm out of her wrapping and waves. “My name is Israfe.”

“Calliope.”

“Yes, I know who you are. The world has not seen you for a good while.” She keeps her head low, so that only Calliope can see her face. Maybe she does this on account of having a freaky-looking left eye; it’s shaped like an upside-down five-pointed star instead of an oval. Her eyelid falls over it unsightly, like a curtain getting stuck at the edges. This isn’t part of even some of the most out-there troll biology, as far as Calliope knows.

“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve been rather busy.” Which is her default response. 

“Busy! Correct me if I’m mistaken, but you haven’t had something published in thousands of years! You’ve got us all patiently awaiting your next grand work.” Somehow she doesn’t sound mean when she says this. She sounds friendly, instead. As if to say, “We can be straight with each other here.”

“You read my stuff, then?”

“Oh, absolutely. As a matter of fact, I’ve recently finished reading your third volume on Aspect theory. Very comprehensive stuff! And, oh, the chronicle of creation, the name escapes me…”

“ _Homestuck_?” Calliope offers. She didn’t think she’d be talking about her works with a fan today. She’s undecided on whether this is unpleasant or not. 

“Bingo! That’s the one. An evergreen masterpiece! I say, it is a grave disservice that scholars have stopped embracing your work.”

This gets a snort out of Calliope. “Well, I am not as popular as I once was. You’re not supposed to read those, you know. I confess I may have missed something, but I believe the Church of the Genesis Frog frowns upon my writing.”

“Oh, what do they know? The gall to think that they could know better than the Muse who’s lived through the stories they sing in their hymns.”

“The False Muse?’” Whenever the topic of the Church has been touched upon by her friends, Calliope’s observed nothing but passive approval, sometimes even encouragement. Of course, making her strained alienation from the Church somewhat awkward. It’s funny, she thinks, how many unspoken tensions she’s let herself sleep through. “I appreciate it, Israfe, but you are not in plentiful company in your sentiments.”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t be so sure.” She pulls the cloth over her eye and turns to the setting sun. “You have admirers, Miss Calliope. Fans.”

 _Do I, now_ , she thinks.

“Do you believe in God?”

“That's a bizarre question to ask the friend of the gods of your world.”

Israfe laughs. It’s a sweet laugh that betrays her young age. “No, of course, of course. I speak of worlds before. Earth and Alternia held many mythologies of their own. Countless. Surely you know who I am referring to.”

“The Abrahamic God of Earth?”

“Precisely. Do you believe such a being existed, conceptually? A one true God, omnipotent and omnipresent?”

“No, I can’t say that I do, or that I have put much thought into the subject.” 

“No, of course not.” Israfe’s voice is impossible to read now. 

They spot Roxy walking over, which Israfe takes as her queue to leave. “It has been a pleasure, Miss Calliope. It would be just wonderful if the public were more often graced with your presence. At the very least, pardon my forwardness, reconnect with the people of this planet!”

They shake hands. “Where would you suggest I start?”

“Why not dust off the television once in a while? Lots going on on TV.” With that, she starts up and walks into the city crowds.

  
  


(Here lies Earth C, perfect and beautiful. Never a war. Never wanton suffering. Not under the gods.)

(And there, by the east coast of the continent, sits a tower of silver and gold. Inside the tower lives a scared and lonely girl. In a planet full of mirthful faces, she’s haunted by visions of her personal failings. Time has not been kind. She struggles to sleep, because she knows that if she does, she will suffer an ontological pain no being should ever experience. Every night, she stares at the ocean and feels her isolation drowning her. She knows that this life is not earned. Sometimes she believes she should be dead.)

(Miss Calliope, you are truly the victim in all of this. This world has presented you with nothing but inadequacy and rejection. I have always empathized. I am so glad that I got to speak with you at least once before the fall.)

(This Earth has no business enduring. It is hubris for the gods to think they can keep living, “improving” life perpetually, theirs and others’, for eternity. I think on some level, Calliope understands that.)

(Which is why I did what I did. Via the most improbable means, I killed John Egbert. Bypassed his conditional immortality. A chain reaction ignited. The Earth split in parts.)

(It brings me comfort knowing Calliope will be alive after the fall.)

“Roxy, I don’t think I can accompany you to Jane and Dirk’s investigation tonight. I’m just so tired. Please let them know I’m very sorry.”

Roxy pauses stacking cans of beef on Calliope’s kitchen cabinets to look at her. “That’s no problem at all, Callie!”

“Thank you for understanding.”

“For sure. Dirk will probs still want to see you sometime, but that can wait till you got a full night’s sleep.” She floats back down for a hug. Calliope mutters gratitudes on Roxy’s shoulder. “I gotchu.”

The sun’s just finished setting past the window. With the lights on, the kitchen gleams with an ambiance Calliope almost can’t recognize.

“Is there anything else I need to get you? A book or somethin’ or anything? Delivery Rogue Roxy is on it!”

“No, but thank you, Roxy.” There are stacks of books and papers over almost every inch of the living room, all under several layers of dust. Calliope starts to put the clutter away, enough to watch the TV semi-comfortably.

Calliope doesn’t expect Roxy to linger as much as she does. Force of habit has her anticipating her phasing out so she can turn off the lights. Instead of leaving, Roxy joins her in putting papers away.

“Callie, I…” Roxy starts, but the weight of time is insurmountably obfuscating.

“What is it?”

Calliope clicks the button. The television boots up with a hum. A handsome anchorman is relating stories of music artists and movie stars.

“No, it’s nothing. I just hope you have a good night! Get lots of rest if you can. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to check on you.”

“Thank you, Roxy. I appreciate it.”

They stand by the part of the couch cleared of garbage. Calliope is too polite to sit while Roxy is still here.

“Well, I’ll let ya get to it! I wouldn’t wanna be late for the meeting, sooo... I’mma go get ready. Bye-bye.”

“Bye, Roxy.”

It’s not five minutes that pass before the sirens go off.

The low volume of the TV set is completely overtaken by the horrible sound of sudden thunder. Calliope feels it within her, like the sound of crushing boulders amplified thousandfold. On the screen she sees something utterly inexplicable.

She sees it outside the window, too. Flashing, deafening beams of light too linear to be lightning pour into the ocean like rainfall. Impossibly large ocean waves form and collapse in an impossible rhythm. The night sky unnaturally lights up in blinding blaze. The ground shakes beneath her like a trampoline—the tower is crumbling.

Roxy soars in and phases her out of there not a moment too soon.

“Roxy, what is going on!?”

“WE GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE, NOW!”

It is only Roxy’s Void powers that protect Calliope from being swept up by the raging winds, or being smitten by the javelins of light. The couple fly higher and higher. Calliope dares not look down. This feels like a dream.

Roxy’s stammering. She sounds like she’s crying. “I don’t know, I don’t know what’s going on, first John was missing and then Jane—”

Roxy presses Calliope tight against her torso as she soars higher, above the clouds. For a few precious seconds, Calliope can hear nothing but the sound of Roxy’s heart almost beating out of her chest. The Earth curves more the higher they go, until she can see all of it. A perfect blue marble against the darkness of space. She doesn’t think she’s awake. It’s so deathly quiet from up here.

Then all at once, it comes crashing down.

An erupting cacophony of the Earth’s crust splitting open like firewood. Hurricanes the size of countries consuming land and sea, leaving absolute destruction in their wake. Horrible glowing clouds pouring javelins of light cover the world. Cataclysmic streaks of color overtake the sky. Spacetime distortions grind and vanish entire chunks of the planet. From the sea, colossal vines and roots break through, like weeds sprouting through cement. The sound of billions of screams reaches far into space.

Had she access to her full range of abilities, Roxy could have done something about this. But she didn’t. And this became evident to Calliope when she turned to her and saw her body cracking like the skin of a porcelain doll. Out from the cracks, the technicolor blood of godhood pours out, rapidly flickering. It flows gruesomely until it stops flickering and turns gray. Roxy’s face is twisted in pure terror.

“The same thing happened to Jane, I—”

This can’t be happening. Not after ten thousand years of complete safety. This is too sudden to be real. The panic sets in and Calliope sobs uncontrollably.

“Listen, Callie, listen. I’m so fuckin’ sorry we didn’t hang out more I’m so sorry I moved out I should’ve never—” Roxy’s cries of agony make Calliope’s heart sink.

Rays of light glow out of the cracks in Roxy’s skin. Roxy holds Calliope with a deathly grip, then takes her left hand and curls it into a fist. She takes her right hand and places it tight on top of it.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go, okay? Don’t let go!”

The Ring.

“Roxy, I…”

There is another brief moment of silence when Roxy says, “I love you.” Then she explodes, and she is gone.

In the middle of the fall, Calliope sees closer and closer how in a matter of minutes the Earth has become destroyed and distorted beyond imagination. Countless lives are gone in a blink. The conductor has lost her baton. The Earth is dead, she thinks. Her body burns as she reenters the atmosphere.

A javelin of light pierces clean through her abdomen. Before she loses consciousness, she holds on to her fist for dear life.


	3. After the Fall

It happened without warning. The threads holding the Earth together unspooled, and the planet became totally and utterly undone. The world ended with a bang after all, as the violent release of the planet’s elements vaporized nearly every living thing. The apocalyptic cacophony raged on, and if the people of Earth stopped frantically seeking shelter for a moment were to listen carefully, they would hear within it a voice of profound intention. They would realize, in the brief, ethereal seconds before they lost all consciousness, that their gods were dead, and that it had most certainly been an act of murder. They would watch the former heroes’ aspects bleed through the wreckage, before themselves succumbing to the rippling forces of the universe.

The sounds of collapse fade out, like the cries of infants do as they fall asleep. The few (and they are few) who miraculously survive look out at the ruins of their home. Devoid of hope, and with no providence as their guide, they walk out into the wasteland.

They will remember this day, but they will not dwell on it. They will never be able to understand how or why this could have happened.


	4. Snoop's Oasis

The sun shines down on Earth in many different colors now. Some places have a sky fully encompassed by a soft yellow hue. In other places, the sky takes on a verdant light. In others, a dark purple. In a world where the land has been reshaped and Space and Time constantly fluctuate, it is very helpful for the new world’s inhabitants to know roughly what region of the world they are in based on what color the sky is. 

This cosmetic side effect might be the only positive change brought upon by the end. The world didn’t finish dying at the initial cataclysm. Just as the people rose from the rubble, so too did a plethora of new dangers. Strange mutations, living and otherwise, swarmed the broken planet. For the first time in millenia, reality was unpredictable. Parents would tell their children, “Don’t wander away from where the sky is purple. You never know what might be out there.”

There are those who listened. They would grow up to inhabit this new world as if it had always been this way. They’d cluster in ruins, build communities, learn to sustain themselves. They’d try to make life a little better every day for those who remain. 

There are those who didn’t. There are those who, for whatever reason, venture beyond their colored sky, out into the unknown. Travel is tricky — aside from contending with the elements, wild beasts, and heartless brigands, they deal with the fact that the land likes to shift and turn and crash in on itself. Even so, they travel on. 

Twenty years after Calliope hits the ocean surface, two such souls find themselves riding on a desert road, northbound.

The morning sun is rising. Something about the way the sunlight reacts with the ground makes the air fill with a thin sandy mist. Osiris Banshi and Vanvee Durret sink into their headscarves to keep from breathing in the particles.

The color of the sky that looms over this pair of trolls is, as it so happens, the same celeste that existed in the world before the end. Osiris and Vanvee are too young to remember. When they glance up casually, it elicits no emotion in them but the faintest hints of a faraway memory.

Vanvee holds the reins of their coal-colored horse. Osiris stands behind her, his boots firm on the horse’s rear. They trot along in focused anticipation, their eyes fixed on an unsuspecting caravan ahead.

They maintain distance from it, so as to remain undetected. The sand-ridden road is empty of anyone but them.

“Do you see it?” Osiris kneels down to Vanvee’s level. He points the blade end of his lance at the wagon.

“Yes. It matches the description, too.” Vanvee lowers her head as she picks up the horse’s pace.

“How many do you think they are?”

“I don’t know. Four. Maybe five?”

“How much do you think they got?”

“Between them? I mean, you saw the damage they did back there, right? A lot, I’d say.” Vanvee looks, for only a moment, at the sky, if only to register in her mind what color it is. The rising sun behind them casts their shadows on the road.

They approach the caravan. Once they are close enough, they hear alerted male voices coming from inside. Then, the clatter of loading rifles. Osiris stands back and holds his weapon tight against his arm.

“Alright. You ready?”

“A little sleepy,” she says with a yawn. “We stayed up all night following them.”

He snorts and pats his moirail’s head, with enough force as to not be too endearing. “Just don’t let me get shot now. Soon as we beat up the bad guys, we can rest up at the town ahead.”

“How do you know there’s gonna be a town ahead,” she says flatly.

“There’s _always_ a town ahead.”

After that thought, a man barks an order, and shots start firing.

“Shit-” Vanvee shouts as she instinctively reaches her hand out toward the shots. She squints her gold, sleepy eyes, and her head begins to buzz with electricity. In an instant, the bullets stop dead, suspended in the air between the horse and the caravan. 

Osiris nearly falls over from the shock. “Shit, okay, now!” he shouts, then leaps from the horse toward the wagon.

Sounds of commotion from within. The men in the caravan —there are four of them — don’t realize that the goldblood has jammed their guns until it is too late. Osiris crashes through the vehicle’s roof, with a swift, practiced swing of his lance that cuts the necks of two of the men. They gargle out in defeat and tumble off the vehicle. In a bout of intense incoordination, one of the remaining men sloppily thrusts the butt of his rifle at Osiris’s face, while the other, the most foolish of the four, stubbornly shuffles through all the guns in the cart to see if any of them still fire.

Osiris snorts a little from the hit but is otherwise unfazed. This man is impressively strong for a human, but Osiris’s blueblood physique makes this not much of a struggle, and he is subdued in seconds. Osiris swings and thrusts his lance with speed and confidence, creating an incremental rhythm of attacks that quickly overwhelms his opponent, leaving the man beaten and immobile on the floor of the wagon. The other guy, screaming his head off about his rifles, meets the same fate soon after.

And with that, another successful ambush. They rein the horses to a stop, and Osiris and Vanvee begin to collect loot.

The man Osiris took down struggles to sit on the floor of the wagon and groans loudly, incoherently, at the pair. His ribs are probably broken. He can only watch as the two thieves ransack through his stuff. “Damnable creatures!” the man shouts through grit teeth. “Who the hell are you!?” 

Vanvee takes a pause from stuffing things into her bag to squat down to the man. She does not meet his enraged, powerless face as she rips away a silver pendant on his neck. “Hey Banshi, take a look at this.”

Osiris looks over her shoulder as she rolls the shape between her fingers — the shape of a frog with its arms and legs extended out in a T-shape.

“It’s another one of them,” he remarks. He turns to the man on the floor and says, “Better question is, who the hell are _you_?”

“The others called themselves a ‘church,’” Vanvee relates as she resumes stuffing supplies into her bags. “But I'm wondering what kind of church goes around pillaging innocent villages?”

“Stacked ones, apparently,” Osiris says, snatching bags of coins from the wagon’s compartments. He whispers to himself, “Ohh, I’m so hungry.”

“No matter. These guys won’t be hurting anyone again.”

One of the last places they loot, a steel box hidden under one of the seats, contains within it a curious-looking piece of metal. It looks intricate in construction, with screws and springs messily sticking out. Vanvee and Osiris recognize its shape and size as identical to that of a human heart. They assume it to be valuable, and without a second thought to its worth they stash it away.

It is this last theft that revamps the beaten man’s tantrum. “You fucking detestable insects! You don’t know what you’re messing with! Oh, may the Creators leave you to perdition upon their return!”

“I reckon they’ll be leavin’ _you_ to the buzzards first,” Osiris says. By the time the man falls to his wounds, the two trolls are far out into the desert road.

Osiris’s maxim proves true. A few hours later, the couple comes across a large roadside sign welcoming them to “Snoop’s Oasis.” It’s written in tasteful cursive, in what is most likely troll blood.

It’s a bit of a bitter relief. It’s an ugly, arid town. Wood buildings line up the main road, looking like they’re held together by peeling duct tape and old resin. The “oasis” refers to the small creek the town is built around, and the feeble greenery that somehow grows around it. Guarding this patch of green is the town’s old constable, a proud and vigilant dersite. Much like everything else in Snoop’s Oasis, he looks rustic and aged, easy to overwhelm. If anyone wanted to take over the town, it wouldn’t take too much effort. The couple approaches the lawman, who kindly directs them to the town’s stable and inn. 

As midday comes and the noon sunlight stirs the sand into a breeze, the couple takes a moment to take in the scenery. 

“Whatcha think?” Osiris asks.

“Oh, I love it,” Vanvee laughs sarcastically.

“I know, right? What’s not to love. You got lodging, a shop, a tavern, a water well…” Walking past it, he leans over and recoils. “Guh. Don’t drink the water.”

“It’s innocuous. That matters, to me at least. The smallness is honestly quite comforting.”

“I guess."

“We’ll rest up for the night, leave first thing in the morning.”

“If it wasn’t for how fuckin’ hot it is, I’d say we leave immediately.”

“Mhm. This is the sort of place where you end up to die if you absolutely cannot make it any further. A pitstop for hearty travelers, and a flytrap for lousy ones.” Vanvee takes his hand in an attempt to signal confidence. “We know which of the two we are.”

At this, Osiris lets himself let go of the breath he’d been holding. He looks around at all the people going about their day, and ponders for a second how it is that each of them winded up in this place. He pictures their lives as separate continuous lines; they trail off far away from here, into the horizon. Sometimes when he’s bored he likes to think about where all of these lines will end. It is his opinion that the best thing one can do for others is to ensure they get a good ending.

“Should I reserve one room, or two?” Vanvee says, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, uh… Why would we need two?”

“Come on,” she says with a glare. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember the potion seller. _'Potion’_ seller.”

He laughs. He’d been wondering for a while when she would bring that incident up. Osiris smiles and cringes at the memory. “It’s not happenin’ again, promise. Just get the one room.”

“If you say so...”

After a bit of sleep, it’s six in the afternoon. The first thing the two northbound trolls notice when they wake up is that the sun here takes longer to set than where they’re from. Which means that the dark light of the sunset lingers for longer over the town.

It’s a hell of a sight, and it puts them in just the right mood to head over to the tavern. It’s honestly nicer on the inside than what the outside suggests. The bar is much more plentiful than they expected. There are more tables set up than what should be physically possible, and none of them feel cramped together. They’ve even got a piano by the bar, with a lively carapacian going at it at the keys. As they make their way to their seat, Osiris tosses a coin across the room in a perfect arc, which the piano player catches gleefully.

“Hey!” Vanvee smacks a hand at her moirail’s chest. “Why are we literally throwing money away?”

“Piano guys are the backbone of post-apocalyptic society, Vee. That’s rule number one of the plains: you always tip the piano guy.”

“I thought rule number one was ‘never bother a man while he’s taking a shit.’”

“Come on, Vee,” Osiris scoffs as they sit. They let their bags and weapons down under the table, out of view. “That’s obviously rule number _two_.”

“Fuck off. Pass me the menu.”

Osiris obliges. He slides the paper over as they smirk at each other. 

“Hey Banshi,” she starts. “Does something seem weird to you?”

“Weird how?”

“Take a look outside.” She nods at the window to their side. The light of the sunset slowly fading out, leaving behind a pronounced look of what the town looks in the dark when the only lights are from a few torches and the stars.

“It’s pretty, for sure.”

“It’s not that,” she presses on as she turns her head back at the tavern. Doesn’t this place feel like it’s—”

“—bigger on the inside?” they say in unison, then nod.

“A little bit, I ‘unno,” he says. “I gotta think it’s somethin’ to do with a trick of the lights.”

“I suppose we’ve seen stranger things,” she says, shaking it off.

The server takes their order; they pay with the loot from the morning’s ambush. As they wait, they pull up their bags and take account of the other things they got from the caravan.

“What do we have here…” Vanvee takes her time to inspect every trinket on the table. She holds them up against the light, turns them on her hand, and when she’s satisfied with what she sees she puts it back away. Osiris watches her go, thinking to himself that surely this must be her favorite part of every hit. 

“Tonight, it’s mostly just a lot of useless trinkets. The metal is bad, honestly, pretty worthless. We got a lot of gold, too. I also found these bundles of documents, they look like letters from their religious higher ups… instructions on installing their rule on other communes and stuff.”

“Damn. Who are these guys?”

“‘The Church of the Genesis Frog,’” she reads out, slowly. “It’s written all over. There’s also a lot of… poems — or are these lyrics? Passages from scripture, it looks like, dedicated to the eight Heroes.”

“So their object of worship is the Heroes?”

“Apparently so!”

At this they laugh, though neither of them quite knows why. For some reason, the thought of a group of people dedicating their violent, tyrannical ways to a bunch of dead gods is funny to them.

“What about this?” Osiris holds the weird-looking heart-shaped bundle of metal up to his eyes. He hands it to her, careful not to prick his fingers on the screws that stick out. “Any clue as to what this is? Is there a poor robot out there missin’ a heart?”

“Hm… It looks a little too clumsily put together to be from a robot, at least from any model I’ve seen. But it also seems very... deliberate in that clumsiness."

“There’s somethin’ written on the bottom. What’s it say?”

She runs her fingers over the engraved letters. “‘Skaiatech.’”

Osiris’s eyebrows perk up. “You remember hearin’ that name, right? From back in the…”

“Yeah, yes, yes I do,” she says, with a deflated urgency that wishes to steer from the subject.

“...Vee.”

“Hm?”

“Do you miss it? Home?”

“Absolutely the fuck not!”

“It’s alright if you do.”

“No, it’s okay. I really don’t. Fuck that village and everyone in it. They don’t deserve a moment of my sympathy.”

“Hah, yes.”

“...But. I can’t shake the fact that now they don’t have anyone to defend them. And like it or not, that’s on us.” 

He stays quiet, leaning on his elbows against the table.

“No point in pretending it isn’t. And when you’ve got people like these, this _Church_ , going around and subjugating entire communities of people…”

“I get it.”

She takes a breath and tries, with some success, to shake the sad look in her eyes. “It’s just a guilty feeling.”

There is a moment of silence, aside from the background noise of the busier-than-expected tavern. Osiris slides his hand over the table. She reaches out and takes it.

“Let us remember why we’re here, okay?” he says, as he takes out a large roll of paper. Folded out, it almost entirely covers the table. It’s an interpretive painting of the continent of Earth from before the end. In their travels, the two have been using it as a map, marking every town and landmark they can pinpoint. 

Vanvee reaches into her boot and takes out a red pencil. “The edge of the desert is not far away from here,” she remarks as she traces their path. “We should be reaching the equator river in a couple of weeks.”

“Meaning…”

She smiles. “Meaning we’ll be halfway to Marigold.” 

“Yes! Yes! Fuck, I’m so tired of sand, Vee!”

“It’s entirely possible that there’s desert on the other side of the river, Banshi.”

“...Heh.”

“What?”

“Your voice is doin’ that thing. Where it gets all low and raspy whenever you get happy.”

“I think it just means I’m tired, actually.”

“And you know how you’ve always got those cold scorpion eyes?”

“Yes, neither you nor anyone lets me forget. What about it?

“It’s just that the further we thread on this journey of ours, the more I see your eyes turn soft and googly when you look at the map. The more I see you smile. It’s nice.”

“Okay, well, now I’m putting the map away cuz I’m embarrassed.”

He laughs and she rolls her eyes. As she rolls up the map, Osiris stretches his arms and takes in the scene. The doors of the tavern flap as trolls, humans, and carapacians come in and out of the night, and as he watches idly, his curiosity of people takes him away. He has lived the life of a thief for long enough to know that although none of the people in this tavern have a place they can really call home, none of them are ever truly lost, either. He sees the lines of their lives roaming, each one looking for a place to end. Some lines wish for shelter. Others desire company most of all. Some would die for a good meal. Others still simply wish to keep moving, roaming, and never stop until their end.

He looks at Vanvee and sees someone who knows what she is looking for with perfect clarity. She wants the happy life that she knows she can only have in Marigold City. 

What is _he_ looking for? Any time he asks himself and looks deep inside, he really only ever comes up with the desire for a nice place to die. A tomb with a good view. And Marigold has a very nice view of the sea, so he’s heard.

His wandering eyes pause.

Someone has piqued his interest.

There is a squiggly-horned troll sitting in the front bar. The first thing Osiris notices is the hair, remarkably ungroomed and, notably, completely dyed white. A cowboy hat hangs on her back. She’s wearing a large dark brown poncho. On her right hand she’s holding a drink; her left hand seems to be outfitted with a heavy metal gauntlet that extends up to her elbow. 

“Oh, fuck yes.”

“What?” Vanvee says.

“Hey, Vee, uh… Do you remember the potion seller?”

Vanvee follows his gaze. “Oh, come on.”

“I am so sorry, but I’m goin’ in.”

“What, is it the hair?”

“Hoo, it’s the everything.”

“Just, for fuck’s sake, don’t let her swindle you out of money.”

“Aye, aye.” And so he goes. His ass gallivants from the table to the stool next to the white-haired troll. 

She is a wonder to look at up close. She has a fair, youthful complexion, with a pronounced definition to her features. 

“Excuse me, miss,” he starts. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re havin’ yourself a _human_ drink. That’s gonna do you no good, believe me. Here, let me treat ya to somethin’ more—”

“I’m good, thank you,” the troll says. The completely disinterested tone of her voice is lost on Osiris. 

“Ooh, I admire your constitution, lady. Takes a strong soul to not drink oneself into a stupor in a place like this.”

She lets out an almost cartoonishly loud sigh. “Can I help you?”

“It’s just that it ain’t a common sight to find someone drinking alone, so I’m thinking you must be lost. I simply came here to offer my friendly aid. Y’know, before someone less friendly finds ya. Did you come here with someone?”

“No.” She has not looked up from her drink. Her voice is deadpan, exhausted.

He feigns disbelief. “Serious? You’re tellin’ me you made it here by yourself in one piece? Nothin’ but you and your horse?

“I don’t have a horse. I walked.”

Now he’s actually surprised. “What? We’re a two days' trek from the nearest settlement. You must’ve been walkin’ for ages.”

“You could say that.”

“Osiris Banshi, yours truly.” He extends a hand, left hanging.

“Callie Ohpeee.”

“It’s a pleasure, Callie. Listen, by any chance do ya have any business up north? Cuz me and my partner — that’s my pale friend over there, a real sweetheart — we’re on our way to Marigold City and we’re leavin’ first thing in the morning. I see you here all in your lonesome and I say, the more the merrier. What do you say, do ya wanna come with?”

It is, of course, not his intention to let her join the party. It’s his idea that after the night, he’ll simply ditch her and leave town.

“Did you say ‘north?’”

“Huh? Yes.”

“You mean ‘east.’”

“No- well… Northeast.”

“Marigold is a lot less north than it is east,” she says, then takes a swig from her glass.

“Aha, I don’t think you’re quite right about that, lady.”

“What makes you say that.”

“I’m glad you asked! See, me and—”

“You have a map?”

“Y-yes.”

“It’s useless.”

“Pardon?”

“The world doesn’t look the way it does on any map. Outdated, useless.”

“Why, that’s fascinating. Hey, what do you say you tell me more in—”

“Whatever. It won’t matter anyway.”

“...Eh?” Her voice is deeply somber. No doubt she must be an emotional wreck right now. 

For a moment, it looks like she’s about to sigh again. She stays still, then drinks the rest of her drink and holds the empty glass up in her gauntlet-less hand. She hums, in a way as if to say that she’s about to explain him a thing. “This is the Earth. Twenty years ago, it blew up.” As she says this, she flicks the side of the glass with the index of her metal gauntlet, producing a clink. The glass cracks slightly. She ignores the look the bartender gives her and continues. “And when it blew up, all the conceptual components of the planet, all the aspect _stuff_ , began to leak out, kinda like a liquid would out of this crack, right? Well, turns out that as it flows out, it keeps...” She starts flicking the glass repeatedly. “...chipping and chipping and chipping away at the Earth until it—” and then glass shatters in her hand. A few heads in the tavern turn at the noise. “It all ends in about a month. You won’t even make it to winter.”

“Wow, that is so fuckin’ fascinating,” Osiris lies. He thinks back to the three other people he’s slept with who were convinced that the world was going to end.

“And I, I’ve, uh… Spent the last couple of decades trying to find a way to stop it. Cuz there’s still a whole lot of people that don’t want to die. So I strapped on my boots and walked all over this _bloody_ hellscape thinking that there must be something I could do. But it’s futile. I _failed_ , and do you know why I failed? It’s because I’m not a _hero_.” There is a pitiful weight to her slurred voice.

It must be the utter look of resignation in her face that makes Osiris, for a moment, believe her words. His back crawls with doubt. There is a second of dread in which he considers the finality of what this crazy woman’s saying, and the train of thought takes him to a dark place he does not want to think about. He turns to look at Vanvee, who is stuffing her face with grub.

The mood’s dead. Figuring he should probably just give up on this incredibly weird woman, he gets up and says, “Okay, lady. You are clearly a very disturbed individual. I wish you the best of luck, and, uh, may the frog gods be ever with you or whatever.”

When he turns to leave, Callie grabs the back of his top and yanks him back with surprising strength. He yelps as he awkwardly stumbles against the bar, looking extremely stupid.

He can feel her hand shaking.

“What,” she hisses, “did you just say to me?"

“Oh, you don’t like the frog thing?” Osiris scrambles to regain his footing. “My bad, my bad! Didn’t mean to step over your religious sensitivities!” He tries, for a second, to reach behind him to where she’s gripping his top to force her hand away. But when he grabs at her hand, it takes an embarrassingly large amount of effort to pry it open. His thoughts lapse — he is very much _not_ used to having his physical strength matched. What is this troll’s caste? 

“No,” he hears her mutter. “No, no no no…”

“Beg your pardon—”

“On your way to this town,” she urges, “did you happen to have an altercation with a Church caravan?”

“Oh. Yes… Why’d you ask—” 

“Oh fuck,” she breaths out, letting go of him. She stops shaking as her nervousness turns to seething irritation. “How familiar are you with the Church of the Genesis Frog?”

“Acquainted,” he frowns. “Me and my partner’ve had some run-ins with their people in the past—”

“Then you know what they’re capable of.”

“I don’t see why—”

“They followed you here, you stupid imbecile.”

Oh fuck. 

At this instant, three simultaneous thoughts occur to Osiris. First: he contemplates how fortunate he is that he had this conversation. He is not fond of being on the receiving end of a surprise attack, and so is grateful for the warning. Second: he needs to think of what to ask Callie to inform his decision on whether to stay and fight or abscond. His primary concern is of how many of them are coming — Vanvee’s psychokinesis can stop incoming bullets, but not from more than one direction. It wouldn’t do to be surrounded.

Third: if he can trust his sense of hearing, then he believes he might have just now heard the distinct sound of clanking metal chains coming from the outside.

“BANSHI, GET DOWN,” he hears his moiral shout, only a moment before the melodic piano music filling the tavern is replaced by the thunderous sound of sprawling gunfire. Their bodies move by themselves; Vanvee flips her table over while Osiris vaults over the bar, but not before grabbing Callie’s wrist to pull her away from the gunfire. The bullets come from the entrance and the sides — they’re surrounded. A torrent of noise overwhelms the room: the rolling gunshots, the splitting apart of wood, the acute breaking of glass bottles, liquid splattering everywhere, and agonized cries from the ones who didn’t find cover. Faint in the chaos, the electric crackle from Vanvee’s head is the only sound Osiris cares about.

The bartender flops dead besides Osiris and Callie as they crouch behind the bar. A moment to collect himself: he pats himself down to confirm he’s not been shot. He holds on to the faint crackle in the background like a lifeline. They’ll be closing in any second now, and he doesn’t have a lot of options. 

He forgets Callie is there until he hears a meek “Ahh, fuck…” from beside him. She’s clutching her stomach.

“Shit, you got got. Hold on, alright? Don’t move while you’re…” And then he sees something that halts his momentum. Over the years, Osiris has never been very well-versed in lore or history. But he’s definitely seen a lot of blood, and he certainly understands that there is a reason that trolls only have eleven blood colors. That’s why he is so taken aback by the fact that there is _lime-colored blood_ coming out of Callie’s abdomen, that he doesn’t even register the fact that she is currently hoisting herself up from the bar, right into the line of fire.

“What the hell are you doing!?” he shouts. But by the time he realizes he should reach out for her arm and pull her delirious ass back down, she’s already too far away. 

He turns his gaze away when her body is riddled with bullets. Welp, there she goes. He focuses back on thinking of a way out.

Except he doesn’t hear the body drop when he expects it. He turns around again and cannot believe his eyes when he sees her still standing.

The shooters, apparently, can’t either. The firing subsides, seemingly in disbelief. There is lime blood _everywhere_.

“Tch…” Callie breathes out with anger. And then Osiris notices that mixed up with the lime blood are traces of gray body paint. It’s smudged all over her face. In an incomprehensibly fast motion, her squiggly horns, white hair, and gray skin disappear in a blur. What remains in place is a scaly green skeleton girl. 

In a similarly instantaneous motion, a holster manifests itself at her hip. She draws from it a magnum revolver, white as snow. As one of the assailants barks an order to fire again, she unloads six rapid, consecutive shots that proceed to take each one of them out, silencing them forever.

The electric crackle stops. Osiris and Vanvee slowly peek their heads from their cover. The three people still standing in the tavern look at each other with the mutual understanding that this is going to be a lot to process.


	5. The Dissipation of John Egbert

You open your eyes and look at yourself, long and hard, in the mirror. It’s only you in the restroom, but your reflection makes you feel like you’re in the presence of a stranger. Disheveled, nervous, like they somehow tripped and stumbled their way into this facility. You splash water at your face, fix your hair, button up your lab coat, reminding yourself that you look  _ fine _ , that lab coats are  _ supposed _ to be a little too big. But all you can see are the sleepless eyes of an impostor; you cannot shake the feeling that this is a person that means to do you harm.

You lean your weight on the sink countertop, the granite cold against your knuckles. Your eyes still sting from the chilly wind outside. You dry your face off and take a breath to pull yourself together.

Your name is Dove Morgan. It’s currently five in the morning on the thirteenth of April, Genesis Day. You are in McConaughey Hospital, a remote Skaiatech facility dedicated to experimental medicinal research. You are twenty years of age. Until recently, you were a pre-med student at the Lalonde-Maryam Institute of Lore and the Magic Arts. Last semester, the whims of fate swept you out of university early, into the role of the personal nurse and caretaker of the Heir of Breath, John Egbert. 

It’s his birthday today, as it so happens.

One last breath of fresh bleach-scented restroom air. Time to go see the birthday boy.

The silence that fills the halls of McConaughey Hospital is darkly pleasant. It’s the perfect balance between an echoing emptiness and the background noise of machine humming. It’s like a noisy vacuum that sucks up your doubts while simultaneously drowning them out. You enjoy walking through it in the mornings on your way to get a hot cup of coffee. It doesn’t occur to you now, but you don’t appreciate how comfortable this routine is for you as much as you should. 

They keep John in a subterranean life support unit, specialized to manage his unique condition. To get there, you have to take the industrial elevator at the end of the hall. Stepping in always fills you with a small mix of awe and dread. The light inside it is unnecessarily dim, and its sheer size makes it feel not built for people. 

The lift rattles as it moves downward. As you wait, you recall the memo you received yesterday; there’s going to be an important high-profile briefing at Skaiatech HQ, and the Heir is to attend. A Skaiatech representative is going to come pick him up today, noonish. You start preparing yourself mentally for what the transport will entail. 

The thing about John is that he… has somewhat of an affliction. His transcanonical exploits caused him to develop a severe state of dissociation over time. The technology exists to keep him stable, but due to the psychological nature of his condition, the general scientific consensus is that there’s no reversing it. Despite studying ectobiology and narratival metaphysics extensively in university, you didn’t understand what his condition was like until you started working here four months ago and met him yourself. It’s honestly really sad. As a rule, you don’t let yourself dwell on it too much. 

The elevator slows to a stop at the bottom floor and opens up. You gather yourself and step out into a dark hallway. The design of this floor is different from the rest of the building — it is much more reminiscent of the early era of Skaiatech. Industrial piping occasionally rattles unconcealed along the walls, and the metal plating on the floor produces a hollow clank with each step. Yellow pipes and bright warning labels dispersedly stick out from the otherwise uniformly gray atmosphere. It very much feels like stepping into a piece of your planet’s history, frozen in time. You find it funny that in juxtaposition to its surroundings, the actual entrance to John’s chamber is a mundane white plastic door.

You walk inside. It’s an ample, hexagonal room. The lights on the ceiling wash over everything with a blue and — at the request of the Heir —  _ very _ dim glow. A large glass cylinder sits at the center, surrounded on all sides by consoles and wires that trail off to the walls. Inside the glass is John, though you wouldn’t know it at first glance. His physical body phases in and out (mostly in) of a purely gaseous state. He is a blur of blue and black streaks, indistinguishable from a gust of wind were it not for the faintest features that suggest a human body. He’s asleep; his being swirls around the inside of the cylinder. This ominous atmosphere took a while to get used to when you first started here. If you didn’t know better, you would think that they’re keeping a cloud as prisoner here.

There is a platform in front of the glass where the cooks leave his breakfast, which, since he won’t eat, is effectively your breakfast. You grab the tray of scrambled eggs and sausage and take it to your desk, where you’re prepared to spend the rest of your day. Your spinny chair creaks when you sit.

“Wakey wakey,” you sing aloud. “Good morning, Mister Egbert.”

John moves, barely, just enough for you to discern that his eyes are open. He says “Good morning,” softly.

“I’m told you have a big day today.” With a mouthful of egg, you grab a clipboard and a pen and move over to the center control panels. “You ready for check-up?”

He nods his head, his glazed eyes not meeting yours. “Mhm.”

You write down the monitor readings on your report form, certifying that he is stable. “Adjusting metaspace concentration at five percent,” you say as you turn the dial up. “Tell me when you feel it.”

You fiddle the pen between your fingers as you wait for his response. “Now,” he says, and promptly you note down the response time — twenty-three seconds — on the form.

“Increasing metaspace concentration at ten percent. Tell me when you feel it.”

Ten seconds go by. “Now.” You write it down.

“Increasing metaspace concentration at fifteen percent. Tell me when you feel it.”

Eight seconds. “Now.”

“Did that hurt?”

“A little.”

“Okay. That’s all for now.” You take the form from the clipboard and tuck it into its respective folder. “Oh, before I forget. Has someone already told you about your meeting today?”

“I… think? Maybe?”

“Okay, well, just to be sure. You have a meeting today at Skaiatech HQ. They’re gonna come pick you up at twelve or so. So… yeah. Get ready for that, I guess!”

John’s reply is familiar — the sound of a prolonged, windy silence.

Your head jolts awake from your desk for the third time today.

Undoubtedly, this is on tape. The security camera in the corner gazes down at you, judgingly. Later in the day, your superiors will review the footage and verify that you are indeed dozing off on the job again.

You feel mildly embarrassed as you check the time on the monitor (11:00 AM), but nothing more. As you grab a can of apple juice on your desk and pop it open, you remind yourself of the fact that if the personal nurse and caretaker of the Hero of Breath falling asleep on duty was a big deal, they would never have given the job to someone like you in the first place. You sip the drink; it’s as cold as the room. The truth of the matter is that any feelings of inadequacy that you might have are, at the end of the day, totally unfounded. Not because of anything regarding your personal competence, but because there is simply and absolutely no need for you nor anyone else to worry that they might be doing a bad job. This world is finely crafted to be ideal. You could not fuck it up even if you wanted to. 

These thoughts, among others, fade out when you check your phone and notice that a pleasant surprise has texted you a phone emoji followed by a question mark.

Your conversations with Tess have grown increasingly sparse over the last few months. This makes sense; looking back, most of your day-to-day interactions with her happened in an academic context. You imagine she must be very busy.

You turn to John. As usual, his expression makes it hard to tell whether he’s asleep or just spacing out (in his case, no meaningful distinction exists between the two). You’re sure he wouldn’t mind if you make a call.

You dial, pacing around to the mechanical beeping until she answers.

“Hello, hello!”

Hearing her voice makes you immediately envious of how warm it must be where she is.

“Hey, Tess.”

“Happy Genesis Day!”

“That’s right, happy Genesis Day.”

“It’s been so long! How are you? How’s the birthday boy?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” You turn your head to the glass chamber. “He’s fine, we’re fine. I’m cold.”

“Oof. I can imagine.”

“Yeah. What’s up? How’re you doing?”

“I’m good! I’m in between classes right now.”

“How’s that going for you?”

“Eeh! You know, stressful and all. But, we managin’. We struggle.”

“You’re still doing applied magics, right?”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“I think you mentioned last time that you were thinking of switching to something else?”

“Yeah, but, I don’t know. It just kinda feels too late to do anything else at this point, you know?”

“I, well—”

“Oh, I guess you wouldn’t.”

“Shrug.”

“Oh, okay, so the reason I wanted to call was… Are y’all doing anything for Genesis Day over there? Like a hospital staff bowling night or something?”

“I think I heard a couple people talk about taking the day off today. Other than that, nothing at all.”

“Oh, really? Wow. You’d think it’d get a little more exciting in there.”

“Yeah, well… You know how it is with John… It’s not easy to be especially cheery around him.”

“Ooh, ‘John!’ First name basis already, huh! I didn’t realize you were so close with the Heir, Dove.”

“Listen! I basically just stare at his vitals all day, you could say I’m a  _ little _ acquainted!”

“Hahaha.”

“Oh, actually, he is going somewhere today. I mean, the Skaiatech people are taking him somewhere today.”

“Oh, where?”

“I can’t tell you that, it’s top secret!”

“Psh. Okay. Can I ask  _ how _ , then? Cuz, I think you said before that he can’t be outside of his capsule or he dissipates into air.”

“That’s not totally true. If the metaspace inside gets pressurized enough, he  _ can _ be outside for a few hours. But obviously, even then, transporting him would be risky, so they have another chamber that keeps the atmosphere inside at a constant level, more or less. Only this chamber has wheels, so. You can move him around.”

“Cool,” she says while nodding, you imagine.

“Pretty much.”

“So they’re just never going to figure out how to fix him?”

Her phrasing makes you cringe a little bit. “No, I don’t think so. He’s been like this for millennia. I think he’s just like this now.”

“Hm. Weird. That sucks.”

“It… makes me sad, I’m not going to lie. Just looking at him like this.”

“Let me take your mind off of it! Do you remember the brothers from fifth?”

“Vaguely…?”

‘Well, they’re having a little Genesis Day thing at their place tonight.”

“A thing?”

“A  _ thing _ ! And since you’re not doing anything over there, you should come!”

“Ah.” Ah. “No, uh, thank you for calling. But I don’t think I can go.”

“Aw, really?”

“Yeah, no, I have… I just have things I have to do tonight, and I can’t just leave my post on short notice like that.” This is a lie. You know that if you wanted, you could request as much time off as you wished, and your supervisors would easily and immediately grant it without consequence.

“That’s totally fine! I’ll just have to drag you outta there some other day.”

“Mhm, mhm. Have fun, though.”

“I will! Okay, I’ll let you get back to your thing. Talk to you later, okay?

“Sure, sure.”

“I miss you.”

“Oh, I miss you too!”

“Okay, bye-bye.” She hangs up, and the hollow whirr of machinery remains.

You know you won’t get to talk to her again for quite some time. As the pit of your stomach aches with the secret longing of wanting to talk to her more often, you put your phone down.

Three men walk through the door precisely at noon. You jolt up to your feet, a bit startled. And then you notice that one of the three men is Dirk Strider. You do a double take as your internal count of how many famous people you’ve met in your life goes up by one.

The Prince’s gaze fixes on the central chamber as soon as he enters. His expression is, as you’d expected, unreadable. To his right, a human with a briefcase is adjusting the cuffs of his black and white suit. To his left, a similarly-dressed dersite is wheeling in a large cylindrical glass container.

“Good afternoon!” you say. “I was told you would come! I mean, I wasn’t told  _ you _ would come, specifically, but, uh, you know! It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Strider.” 

The Prince of Heart has now become the third Hero you have interacted with. You take a second to appreciate the statistical improbability of someone in your position. Then you take another second to consider how it’s not actually that particularly remarkable. Dirk takes his eyes off John, who has seemingly not noticed the new presence. He extends his hand out to you. “Good afternoon. You must be the new nurse, —”

And then he says your deadname.

It’s not his fault. The thing about “Dove” is that it is a name that nobody outside of your friend circle (your friend circle being Tess) and certain online spaces are aware of, and expanding its use does not cross your mind as something you would ever do. Professionally, it’s too much of a risk, and it would make things too weird, you think.

“Yes, sir, at your service.”

The Prince nods to his sides. “This is my colleague Richter. And that’s AS with the glass box.”

“ _ Doctor _ Richter Aidan, Director of Science and Technology at Skaiatech,” the man says, with the cadence of someone who has introduced himself like this a million times before. 

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Aidan,” you say as you shake his hand. It is a little disconcerting when you notice that he and Dirk are about the same height. It almost doesn’t feel right that a mortal should look so alike a god. You remember feeling this way with Rose as well. In your head, you  _ know _ that Dirk is not actually flesh and blood. But next to Richter, the auras they give off are of a much similar business. 

AS waves a friendly hand. You wave back, politely.

“So how’s my buddy been?” Dirk asks.

“Good! Good!”

“You taking care of him?”

“Yes yes.” You hand the morning report to him, which Richter takes instead. “All readings are stable so far. His condition remains consistent with projected metaphysical activity, sir.”

You show the men the different gauges embedded into each console across the room, explaining what each represents and how each is behaving normally, warning them to watch their step over the spaghetti of wires interlacing the floor. If you’re being honest, you think AS might be the only one who’s listening. Richter has been grumpily typing away at his phone nonstop, while somehow avoiding bumping into or tripping on anything. Dirk, on the other hand, seems to only be half-paying attention to you; his gaze seems to be only on John. 

You stop talking, and think for a moment about how much history there must be between them. Between all the others. No, John doesn’t really get visitors at all these days. You’d know. You… imagine it must have been different back then, when he first got like this. For years, maybe even centuries, his friends must have been worried sick every day. But seeing them now, Dirk looking up at the cloud of gas that is John Egbert, there is such a distance between them. 

You don’t like it. You guts twist up when you think about it. You almost want to yell out that it’s wrong for things to have drifted away so much that this point is the equilibrium under which they settled. Now thousands of years have passed, and millions will follow, and that distance between Dirk and John will not get any shorter.

Their figurative distance, at least. In the literal sense, you see that Dirk is slowly, cautiously stepping closer to the central chamber, as one would walk toward a stray cat in the hopes that it doesn’t run away.

“Hey, pal. It’s me,” Dirk says.

John finally reacts. Slowly from the blue wind a face takes form, which turns gently toward the Prince. “Hello.”

“Welcome back to the waking world. There’s going to be a meeting today at Skaiatech HQ, and circumstances want you there. What do you say?”

“How are you, Dirk?”

“We can catch up after the meeting. But I’m peachy, thanks for asking.”

“Okay.”

AS wheels the transport chamber closer.

“We’ll get you there in no time, buddy.”

“Okay.”

“All set?” He’s asking you. You give a thumbs up and open the chamber.

John floats out and into the transport. It’s smaller. You cringe with worry at the thought that he might feel cramped there. He is already all cloud by the time you think to check his facial expression.

“We’ll have him back before the end of the day,” Dirk says.

“Sure thing! I’ll be here, if there is anything I must do or need to know, please let me know.”

Dirk nods. He doesn’t say goodbye; his hand pressed against the glass, he and AS roll the gaseous transport away.

Richter lingers for a moment. Having scanned through the report, he hands the clipboard back to you. Somehow his age stands out way more when he’s not next to Dirk. “Your services are appreciated, young —” He misgenders you.

“Of course, sir— I mean, Doctor.” you say, clumsily.

“This is…” He sighs as he looks around the room. He very apparently doesn’t like what he sees. All the wires, monochrome machinery, the utterly low temperature. If you were not already used to it, you imagine that the sterilized, metallic smell would also make your face do what Richter’s is right now. “This is by no means a long-term position, you understand.”

“For John?”

He turns his head and laughs, somehow not smiling. “No, no. I meant for you.”

“Oh! Oh, oh.”

“What I mean is that your nursing role expires at the end of the year. When that happens, I’ll have my people reach out to you. I’m interested in offering you a more, ahem,  _ agreeable  _ career within Skaiatech.”

“But of course, yes! I’ll be happy to take you up on that.” 

“Good, do keep it in mind. Have a good rest of your day.”

He closes the door behind him. 

John didn’t talk much, but the room feels significantly more empty when you look at the glass and he isn’t there. You walk to your desk, splay your arms on the desk, and sink your head on your sleeves. Nap time.

You cycle through three or four repetitions of waking up, having nothing to do, messing around the lab, reading on your phone, then falling back asleep. Like every other narrative element does, Time blends around you, accommodates for this tedious routine. In an utopian reality, you need not fear that your ennui is inconvenient in the face of baseline society. So, chronologically, it feels like the  _ right _ amount of time has passed when at eight in the afternoon, the door opens.

What  _ does _ take you by surprise is that instead of seeing Skaiatech agents come through with a glass container, you see a pair of blue pajamas stumbling inside.

You almost fall off of your chair when you rush in to help him. “Woah, woah, woah, hey!”

“It’s okay,” you hear his windy voice say. You can see a semi-solid arm gripping onto the door’s handle for balance. He holds out a puff in the shape of a hand at you, signaling to keep your distance. “I’m okay.”

“Oh my— did you get out of your capsule? What’s going on?”

“No, no, they… They saw me leaving like this. I came on my own.”

“Wow, that’s… I didn’t know you could do this, uh… What happened?”

“Well, I had a very pleasant—”

His leg gives, and he falls to the ground. The impact breaks his tangible body down into air again. You swear that for a moment you’re on the brink of a heart attack before the air starts coalescing back together into a body.

“I’m okay,” he says.

You help him up. He leans on your shoulder as you both waddle up to the chamber, close enough to get him in.

“Thank you,” he says.

“No problem. Oh my God, that’s amazing! What, wait, did you come here all on your own?”

He nods.

“Did no one seriously try to stop you? Did you not run into any security guards?”

“What security guards?”

“What?”

“There are no security guards.”

“Wh—” and then you realize he’s right. You hadn’t thought about it before, but you’ve never seen guards here, or in any other Skaiatech facility, for that matter. You suppose you’ve never seen a reason to have them, either.

“But, still. As impressive as that way, let me know next time you attempt to make a long traversal on foot.”

“I will.”

You’ve sat all day; you decide to stretch your legs by pacing around the room. “How was it?”

“It was alright.”

“Alright.”

“It was good, actually. To see my friends again. It has been a very long time, I think.”

“I’m sure, yeah. A very momentous occasion. I’m glad you got to see them.”

“Yes.”

“...I got invited out tonight.”

“Oh?”

“By a friend from uni.”

“You couldn’t go?”

“No, I  _ could _ . I didn’t go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I don’t know  _ why _ I didn’t go, exactly? I take a step back and it doesn’t make sense at all, because it’s not like I don’t like her, and it’s not like I have a lot of friends. And I miss her. And I miss seeing all the others, kinda.”

“You wanted to stay here instead?”

“I think I did. I don’t know why, but that’s the only explanation.”

“Hm.”

“I… I feel weird.”

“Weird?”

“No, that sounds stupid. I mean I feel  _ different _ . Not different in a good way. I talk to people, and it feels like I am someplace else. Like whoever is talking out of my body is someone else entirely, while I am just… a passive observer. Like, I will say something in reply to someone that is too complex to have been said in autopilot mode, and a moment later I’m like, ‘I do not remember having the thoughts that I would’ve had to have to have said something like that.’ It just… Do you ever feel like you are always someplace else?”

“...”

“I’m not making sense, my bad.”

“No, it’s okay.”

Machines continue to whirr. The cold picks at your skin. You lean back against the wall by the door and look down at the ground. You think you’re starting to get a headache.

“I think,” he says. “I think it’s very easy for us to look at the world and see only the big picture. And when we spend all our energy doing that, we don’t consider that the space we take up is important, too. We forget we’re even here. We forget how to be people.”

You don’t know how to respond. And he doesn’t seem to react to your silence. So you lean back and think. You think about his words, what they even mean. You think back to the distance between Dirk and John. You think of Tess, and hope she’s having a good time. You think of your morning routine, of walking through the snowy roads, icy wind drying up your eyes and hurting your ears. Maybe you’ve been sleeping too much. Your fatigue, emotions, and inconsequentiality all fight for attention in your head. You think that if you sleep on it, you’ll get what John means by forgetting how to be a person. 

“Thank you, John,” you finally say, making sure to sound like you mean it.

When you look up to see if he’s fallen asleep, the door opens. Your first thought is that it might be Skaiatech people coming to check in on John after he left on his own. You turn, and what you see causes you immediate pause. A troll wearing violet rags has barged in.

You start, “Um, can I help y—” 

It happens way too fast. It doesn’t feel  _ right  _ at all, how fast the throwing knife stabs at your chest, how quickly you fall to the ground. John calls out to you, but right now you cannot see a thing from how hard you hit your head. The pain is cold and sharp, worse than anything you have ever felt in your short life. 

You manage to turn your head, slowly, painfully, before you stop being able to breathe. You watch, with your last moments of consciousness, as John bangs at the glass walls while the figure in violet throws up strange rectangular devices that stick to the cylinder's perimeter. Once they are set up, the figure flips a switch, and everything goes wrong.

Emergency red lights flood the room. An alarm blares out across the whole building. The dials you’ve spent so long looking at max out and break, and you realize what is happening. You fix your eyes, as blurry as they are rapidly getting, on John. He is writhing in agony. You are fading fast, but you have never seen him so  _ clearly _ before. He is  _ too _ solid, far too real. The fabric of metaphysical reality is crashing into him. The gravity of his body is causing him to choke. There is a spark that flashes many colors, and you notice that the glass is breaking. No, it’s not the glass. It’s  _ him _ .

You hear the troll begin to laugh maniacally, throwing her arms up into the air in triumph. The hood over her face falls off, and when you get a look, it occurs to you that you absolutely recognize her. The last thought you have before you die is that your count of famous people you’ve met has just gone up by one.

The world flashes white. John’s screaming and the troll’s laughter are the last things you hear.

  
(Maybe the laugh at the end there was a bit much? But, I couldn’t help it! Emissary of winds, you have set me  _ free _ !)


End file.
